by JL Curtis
Aaron thought Belt and suspenders? Probably, but if we get hit at night, every light is going to be important. I better get another three cases of batteries for each system on the way here. Mac’s settled in at JTAC. Doc Wells has stepped up. Hell, the whole det is taking it up a level from where we were. It’s looking good! Thank God!
The first three patrols went off without a hitch, and the whole team started to feel more comfortable working with both the ANP and the ANA. The ANA guys were much more competent than the local Iraqi military Aaron had seen in Iraq on his last tour, and he was working with Ali to get a good rapport going with the young lieutenant that was leading most of the patrols. His biggest concern was their vehicles had for all practical purposes no armor, and the troops had very little in the way of protective equipment.
After he’d mentioned it to Captain Ragsdale, it had been pushed up the chain, and come back down as a hands off. No favoritism could be shown without causing problems between the ANP and ANA.
Aaron and Gunny Mayhew had talked after each patrol, and come to the conclusion that neither of them really trusted the ANP at this point.
Aaron’s second biggest worry became boredom as the days turned into weeks, and would turn into months. Boredom and complacency had killed more soldiers since time immemorial than damn near anything else except war.
To the Rescue
The old man picked up the mic. “Dispatch, car four. Show me out of the county for the next few hours. I’ll be down in Alpine with Clay Boone. ETA probably eighteen hundred.”
Lisa replied, “Dispatch copies. Say hi to the Ranger for me.”
“Will do,” the old man replied, putting the mic back on its hanger. Settling back, he pondered whether or not to retire and just hang it up. Without Francisco and Juanita, the ranch was taking a lot more work and time, even with Felix and Ricky’s help. Philosophically, he knew age was catching up with him, and it was time to step down. The attempted hit on him was also weighing on him as he drove down to Alpine. He’d not gotten more than an hour or two of sleep, waking at the slightest sound, and reacting in what he could only think of as combat mode.
Pulling into Clay’s driveway, the old man told Yogi to stay and walked slowly to the front door. Ringing the bell, he heard a muted “Come on in,” from somewhere inside. Clay, rangy and lean, with silvered hair came out of his office and said, “Just in time for lunch. Where’s the pup?”
“Still in the car. I didn’t know if you allowed dogs or not, since I’ve never seen one around here.”
Ronni, Clay’s wife, blonde, petite and smiling came down the hall. “John, that’s only because this asshole here—” She pointed at Clay. “—won’t let me have one. You know I like ‘em. Go get Yogi. I even bought some treats for him.”
Laughing, the old man replied, “You give him treats, I may never get him back in the car.” He went and put Yogi on a leash, then brought him back to the house, running him through the sit and wait commands, then entering with him at heel. Once inside, Yogi saw Ronni and the tail started going. Ronni knelt and ruffled Yogi’s fur, taking the leash from the old man.
As Ronni led Yogi away, Clay and the old man stepped into Clay’s office. “Have a seat, John. Lemme bring you up to speed on what I got back from Bucky and we’re seeing down here.”
Ronni came in with a thermos of coffee. “Let me know when y’all are ready for lunch.”
The old man poured a cup of coffee and replied, “Okay, you fill me in, and I’ll return the favor.” An hour later, they’d come to the conclusion that things were getting worse instead of better. Bucky had finally ID’ed the two that had tried to take out the old man as local enforcers from Nuevo Laredo, and affiliated with the Zetas. That meant he was now or still on their radar. The coyotes coming across Big Bend National Park smuggling people and with both Zetas and Sinaloa cartels moving product up through the park, was stressing the Border Patrol to the point that they couldn’t keep up. In addition, the park rangers were loath to get involved, saying it wasn’t in their charter to be a police force, even as the Park LE types were trying to mix it up with the bad guys. At the same time, the park rangers were doing what they could to limit both the Park LE types, Rangers and CBP’s access to the park other than the very outer boundaries.
Clay finally said, “Hey, lunch is calling. Brisket and potato salad work for you?”
Traipsing into the kitchen, they found Ronni feeding a very happy Yogi treats as he sat patiently at her side. “Everything is on the counter. You boys help yourselves,” Ronni said. Getting up, she turned to the old man. “Iced tea, okay? Or more coffee?”
The old man looked at the spread and said, “Tea’s fine, and a wheelbarrow would be handy, too! If you feed Clay this well I’m surprised he doesn’t weigh three hundred pounds!”
Ronni laughed. “Well, I do make sure he gets his exercise.” Turning red, she continued, “And he rides Dusty quite a bit in the field.”
Everyone dug in, and it was quiet as the lunch was consumed. Yogi laid at the old man’s feet, watching like a hawk for anything to hit the floor, but much to his dismay, nothing did. After lunch, the old man took Yogi for a walk and gave himself a chance to get a few kinks out from all the sitting he’d been doing.
The old man spent the walk mulling over what he and Clay had discussed, and he realized there weren’t any really good answers out there. Their hands were being tied more and more by the bureaucrats, both in Washington and at the state level, and the lawyers like the ACLU that sued at the drop of a hat. Hell, even the DEA and CBP were getting handcuffed on both sides of the border, and they were starting to see more and more punks from some of the Latin gangs getting across the border.
With the information about the two that tried to hit him, he was even more concerned about what he needed to do. Yogi finally did his business and the old man headed back to the house with doggie bag in tow. Depositing it in the trashcan, he took Yogi back in the house and turned him back over to Ronni. Grabbing another cup of coffee, he and Clay returned to Clay’s office and started trying to brainstorm ways to actually get things done.
Suddenly, they were interrupted by both Clay’s and the old man’s radios going off on common with an emergency tone, followed by chilling words that CBP was pinned down on the river inside Big Bend and requesting any units respond. Clay looked over. “You got your big gun in the car?”
The old man nodded. “Yep, never leave home without it anymore.”
“Remember how to shoot out of a helicopter?”
The old man shrugged. “Can’t do long range, you can’t hold it steady enough, but if I have to, yeah.”
Clay grabbed his hat and radio. “Let’s roll. It’s a half hour if I push it up in the chopper, and I don’t think anybody can get there any quicker than we can.”
Ronni came in asking, “What’s going on?”
Clay gave her a peck on the cheek. “Gotta run. Got to try to save some CBP folks down south. Be back in an hour or so.” He and the old man went out the front door.
Yogi whined as he watched the old man leave, but Ronni brought out a treat, distracting Yogi. “Guess it’s you and me, boy, and I hope they don’t do anything stupid down there.”
The old man popped his trunk and grabbed the MRAD and a spare box of shells along with his go bag and ran to Clay’s jeep. Setting the gun case in the back, he braced it and jumped in the front seat as Clay hit the lights and siren and bolted out of the driveway. En route to the airport, he got on the radio and pumped dispatch for a better location. They finally were told the two officers were pinned down at the big horseshoe bend south of Comanche Creek. As they slid to a stop at the small hangar, Clay nodded in satisfaction. “I know that area pretty well, and it’s a straight shot.” Picking up the mic, he asked, “Dispatch, Ranger Boone, I’m en route, will be airborne in ten in the chopper. Are the officers on common or on a CBP freq?”
Dispatch replied, “Ranger, as far as I know, they are up their standard CBP freq
. I got a relay from CBP, I’ll try to get them on common for you.”
“Roger, ‘preciate that.” Dropping the mic back on the hook, Clay opened the door and told the old man to grab his gear. Clay reached in the back seat and pulled an AR out of the rack and a small backpack and bolted for the hangar door. The old man grabbed his gear and was right behind Clay. As they went through the door, Clay said, “Help me push the bird out, then get up on the starboard side. That aft door will just lift off after you open it, just move it back into the hangar before we take off.”
Clay and the old man pushed the Hughes 500E out of the hangar on its dolly. The old man got up and removed the starboard aft door, then carried it back into the hangar as Clay jumped in and started a quick preflight. The old man put the door on the back desk, opened the rifle case, removed the MRAD and two mags and threw the spare box of shells into his backpack. Trotting back out to the chopper, he dumped the rifle and backpack on the back seat and helped Clay untie the chopper from the dolly.
Clay coiled the tie-downs and put them in a storage compartment on the dolly. “Okay, let’s go. We’ve got a full bag so that gives us about two point five hours. Strap in and put the gunner’s belt on too, that way when we get there, you can unstrap and use that to maneuver in the chopper without me worrying about you falling out.”
The old man nodded, and jumped in the back seat on the right. Strapping in, he quickly secured the rifle and put on the headphones as Clay started the chopper. “Alpine tower, November niner fife tango romeo lift from the dolly, VFR direct Big Bend.”
The tower responded, “Niner five tango romeo you’re clear to lift, altimeter two niner eight niner, winds two six zero at ten. No traffic in the area.”
Pulling the collective, Clay lifted smoothly off the dolly and dropped the nose, picking up speed as he crossed the boundary fence and began gaining altitude. Staying at 1000 feet, he pushed the little chopper up to one hundred fifty knots and told the old man, “John, we should be there in twenty. I’m assuming you’re going to want to shoot out the left door, and you’ll need to cue me on where you need me to position the chopper. Reach up on the comms box there and go to hot on the mic select. That will make your mic hot all the time and you won’t have to be trying to reach for the switch.”
The old man did as directed, then said, “Test, test. How do you hear me, Clay?”
“Five by. Standby. I’m going to see if I can raise the patrol folks.” The old man heard a hiss and pop in his headset, then Clay was going out over the radio, “Border patrol unit in trouble on the river, Ranger Boone on uniform common, ETA nine minutes. I need an exact location for you and a sitrep.”
A stressed female voice answered, “Ranger, we’re approximately a hundred yards south of the fourteenth hole at Blackjack’s Crossing, right where the tit sticks out into the river. We’re just south of the truck down in the dry wash. We’re taking fire from both across the river where that trail comes down and a bunch of unknowns to our southwest where the cart trail peters out.” Gunfire and unladylike words were heard, followed by, “My partner is shot through both legs, I got tourniquets on, but I can’t drag him to any better location at this time. I’m down to less than twenty rounds of five five-six, plus the pistol rounds. Estimate ten-fifteen illegals southwest of us with three maybe four shooters mixed in, unknown number across the river. How copy?”
Clay replied, “Copy all, status on the truck?”
“It’s toast. We pulled up and they started firing before we even cleared the truck. Partner is on the north side of the wash at the bottom. I’m on the south side trying to engage the assholes to the south.”
“Roger all, ETA two minutes. I’ll come straight over the top of the truck on the first pass to size up the situation.”
The female responded, “Roger, recommend you stay high, otherwise they’re going to probably try to take you out, too.”
The old man loosened his seat belt, gave the gunner’s belt an extra tug and started loading up the MRAD, now pointed safely out the door. He ran a second gunner’s belt over and strapped it to the MRAD. Easing over, he started trying to find a good shooting position, and finally ended up standing on the right skid. He asked, “Altitude?”
Clay responded, “Five hundred for now, let’s see what we’ve got and decide from there if we need lower.”
“Roger,” the old man said, as he wiggled into a more comfortable position. Feeling the chopper slow, he leaned further out and picked up the dry wash, but couldn’t see the truck.
Clay came over the radio. “On top now, agent. I have your visual. I see possibly four shooters to the south. We’ll clear to the east and see if we can get them off you.”
The female responded, “That would be nice.”
Clay said on the intercom, “John, I’m going down to three hundred, I’ll offset east about two hundred yards. Two shooters look like they are in some kind of uniform, the other two look like typical cartel types, both in white shirts. Looks like they’ve got subguns and ARs, and they are hiding behind the others down there. That should make it a bit harder for them to hit us. You want a hover or can I move slowly?”
The old man replied, “Concur on the shooters, a hover would be nice, but if they start shooting, start moving. That’s going to give me a pretty good depression angle, so give me a minute to pick up the targets. I’ve got to hold low from this angle and altitude.”
“Roger, standby.”
The old man got into his shooting position and brought the rifle up, initially with both eyes open to pick up the shooters. He saw one kneeling behind a rock, and almost without thought brought the rifle smoothly to bear, mentally decided it was point of aim, point of impact and said, “Target.”
BOOM.
The MRAD recoiled back into his shoulder as Clay said, “Damn, that was loud,” but the old man never heard it. Riding the recoil, he found the first target down with the rifle well away from his body, swinging a bit he locked in and saw the second uniform with an AR squatting behind a clump of cactus.
“Target.”
BOOM.
The second shooter was down. A third shooter in a white shirt stood up and turned toward the chopper. As the old man locked in on him, his shirt suddenly blossomed red and he dropped.
The helo lurched violently as Clay cussed, “Bastards across the river are shooting at us. Damn near got me with that one. I’m going to pick it up a bit and speed up a bit. Hang on.”
The old man asked, “Where?”
Clay replied, “I think that track coming down to the water. Looks like there might be a vehicle sitting up in there.”
The old man panned the scope over to the area Clay described and saw a figure in green with an AR in hand, then saw the muzzle flash. “Target.”
BOOM.
Riding the recoil, he saw the shooter down, and saw a truck concealed in the foliage. Just to be on the safe side, he put two rounds into the truck. One through the windshield and one where he guessed the engine was. He continued to scope the other side of the river, but didn’t see anyone else, so he called, “Clear on the other side. Let’s go back and get that last shooter.”
Clay brought the chopper around, extended to the south and slowed as he approached the area where the first shooters had been encountered. The only thing moving were the illegals. Clay could see four down and said, “Looks like the shooters are down. I’m going to land just behind the truck. I see one officer getting up but the other one is down.”
The old man replied, “Do it. Put my side toward the illegals just in case.”
Clay set the MD500 smoothly down and the old man was out of the helo as soon as the skids touched the deck. Running out from under the blades, he rounded the truck and saw the CBP officer herding the illegals into a clearing where she could keep them under control as she cleared the weapons away from the four downed shooters. Dropping into the wash, he found the first officer and saw immediately that he needed transport. Both legs were covered in bloo
d, he was unconscious and turning gray. He quickly keyed his radio, “Clay you’re going to need to transport this one. He’s not going to wait for an ambulance. Officer, bring three or four of the illegals over here to carry your partner back to the helo.”
Clay double clicked his mic in response, as the female replied, “On the way.” The old man looked at the unconscious officer and decided there was nothing else he could do, so he stepped back and brought the rifle to low ready as the first illegal jumped down into the dry wash, followed by all the rest.
Spears stayed at the top of the wash with rifle in hand as the old man picked out four of the bigger illegals and directed them in Spanish to pick up the second officer and carry him to the helo. Only one of them seemed to understand, and he finally resorted to charades to get them to pick him up. Once there, they lifted him into the back seat, and the old man had them sit in plain sight while he strapped the officer into the back seat belts. “Okay, Clay, he’s strapped down. Lemme get clear and you can lift. He’s got a pulse, but he’s still out.”
Clay looked back and nodded as the old man scrambled from the helo and marched the illegals away. The rotor pitch picked up as Clay said, “If anybody copies this station, advise Alpine Hospital niner fife tango romeo is inbound with a gunshot victim, ETA two zero minutes.”
Paperwork Drill
After the helo departed, the first faint sounds of sirens could be heard as the old man marched the four illegals back to the dry wash. After getting them and himself back down in the wash, he climbed up the other side and finally realized the CBP officer was Sparks. She glanced at him, looking grateful. “Thanks for saving our lives, Mr. Cronin. If it weren’t for y’all, we’d be dead in this ditch. How is Eric doing?”